


Love Your Suit

by shiphitsthefan



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Dark Will Graham, Episode: s01e01 Apéritif, Episode: s01e08 Fromage, F/F, Female Hannibal Lecter, Female Will Graham, Fix-It, Gender or Sex Swap, Hannibal is Hannibal, Inspired by Art, Inspired by Twitter, Season/Series 01, Will Graham Has Encephalitis, they're lesbians harold
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-05-03
Updated: 2019-05-08
Packaged: 2020-02-09 12:38:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,516
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18638284
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shiphitsthefan/pseuds/shiphitsthefan
Summary: She rubber-stamps Will's approval to work for Jack's peace of mind, and then Will avoids Hanna entirely. Even their single mandatory session had been full of halted speech, nothing but curt greetings and sarcastic answers. Will barely even looks at Hanna at crime scenes, enough neglect to make her seriously consider in which manner she actually wants to eat Will.It shouldn't arouse her as much as it infuriates her, and yet.Hanna supposes that's primarily what made Will's intent stare at her in the ambulance so intriguing, made it such an enticement. She caught Will watching her hands and scanning up Hanna's bared forearms, covered in blood, and Will looked hungry.Curious.If Will is going to seem starved, it's only fair to invite her for dinner.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [rodabonor](https://archiveofourown.org/users/rodabonor/gifts), [TheSeaVoices](https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheSeaVoices/gifts), [Weconqueratdawn](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Weconqueratdawn/gifts), [ash-and-starlight](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=ash-and-starlight), [OneHandedBooks](https://archiveofourown.org/users/OneHandedBooks/gifts), [gleamingandwholeanddeadly (something_safe)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/something_safe/gifts), [resoundingecho](https://archiveofourown.org/users/resoundingecho/gifts).



> ALL HAIL THE LESBIAN HANNIGRAM RENAISSANCE!
> 
> [tosses confetti, plays a trumpet badly]
> 
> if you aren't on twitter, you might not be aware that we're living in the halcyon age of lesbian aus, harold. since i recently came out, and all of the art for this au is _delicious,_ i decided i had to write something for it.
> 
> in addition to the folks listed above, this is also a gift for Lvemealnepls and cowboycarrots! ao3 wouldn't let me add them in the gift box because i don't know their ao3 handles, and i didn't ask, because this is a surprise! love to all of my lesbian!hannigram artists and writers. <3
> 
> smut will be in chapter two. i gotchu fam. this isn't a kinky fic, but i've never written a cis sex swap, so it seemed perfect for #JustFuckMeUp.
> 
> betaed by the lovely [Llewcie](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Llewcie/pseuds/Llewcie/works). love upon love.
> 
> enjoy! :D

Hannibal can’t deny how beautiful Will is like this, standing in the doorway of a discount motel room in Minneapolis, hair in messy curls, wearing nothing but a loose t-shirt, snug underwear, and a smile. She should be insulted, Hannibal thinks, considering how carefully she chose her own outfit this morning: a rich suede-brown blazer; crisp white shirt unbuttoned at the collar, no tie; the same slacks and pumps and pullover vest she’d worn when they first met in Jack’s office; hair pulled back in a loose, low ponytail, showcasing her gold chandelier earrings. Unthreatening and—hopefully—endearing to the rough-and-tumble woman she’s set her sights on.

“Where’s Crawford?” and that should rankle Hannibal, too, Will’s curt rudeness, not deigning to give Hannibal a welcome in return. Instead, Hannibal finds herself intrigued by how it doesn’t bother her, at all.

“Do you always greet your bosses like this?”

Will shrugs, disinterested. “If it bothers them, it’s not my fault. So where is my ‘boss’?”

“Deposed in court,” Hannibal smiles, wondering if Will even notices the Chanel Créatif on her lips. Unlikely. “The adventure is yours and mine today.”

Will doesn’t even twitch a grin. She looks annoyed by the whole idea.

“May I come in?” Hannibal lifts the thermos and bag of food. “I come bearing gifts.”

Eventually, Will relents. “Of course you do. Let me get decent.”

“Don’t bother on my account.” Hannibal gently closes the screen door behind herself. The whole room smells like the cheap cologne Will wears, and she shouldn’t enjoy that, either.

She snorts. “Well you obviously tart up for room service. I’ve heard it’s polite to return the favor.”

“We both know how appreciative you are of manners.”

Will throws on a robe, anyway, but doesn’t tie the belt. “Dr. Lecter—”

“Please,” she says, “call me Hanna.”

“Not Hannibal?” Will doesn’t even turn around, simply sits down at the table, legs sprawled, uncaring.

“My father wanted a son. He was unfortunate to get a daughter, but he named me all the same.”

“Huh.” She looks at Hanna for the first time. “And I thought my dad was bad.” When Hanna tilts her head, Will adds, “My name’s Willa. I got so many Cather jokes in English, I had it legally changed to Will. Better for the force, anyway. You wouldn’t believe the misogyny.”

“You’d be surprised.” Hanna continues setting the table. “I went to medical school.”

Will grunts in reply, but says nothing, though she does compliment Hanna’s coffee and the scrambled lungs of Cassie Boyle. Hanna is pleased to find this is enough to satisfy her ego.

 

* * *

 

Hanna was wrong. Will is infinitely more beautiful covered in blood, a faraway look in her eyes, the smell of gunpowder lingering under the heaviness of crusting iron on her arms. She doesn’t watch the paramedics load the bodies into the ambulance; when Hanna moves to take her glasses off to wipe them, Will doesn’t even blink. When the glasses are clean, grime clinging to the fibers of Hanna’s vest, Will still hasn’t said a word.

“Will?” It isn’t an act, Hanna discovers, this sudden softness in her voice. She files away the surprise and shock to muse over later. “Do you need to sit down?”

“See.” Will shakes her head, then violently scratches through the sweaty hair plastered to her skin, like she’s trying to stop an itch on her skull. “What was I supposed to _see?”_

“A family at its most honest.”

“But he wasn’t supposed to die,” says Will, manic, frantic, not even questioning Hannibal’s words. “He wasn’t supposed—I was supposed to bring him in, not kill him, and I—the trigger, it j—oh god.”

Hanna follows her to the ground as Will slides down the side of the police car, kneeling in front of her. Years of medical practice guide her hands to the sides of Will’s face before she can think to ask consent, but Will only leans into her touch. Will’s lip trembles as Hanna catches a tear with her thumb, swiping it off her face, blood smearing in its wake.

“I shouldn’t be here, Dr. Lecter.”

“I suspect you may be right. With your empathy disorder, I imagine you’ve—”

Will grabs Hanna’s wrist; she meets her eyes for the first time since they both crouched over the Hobbs’ daughter. “No,” she says, nearly a whisper. “That’s not why.”

“Then why?” Hanna almost doesn’t care about the answer, mesmerized by the specks of red clinging to Will’s bottom lip. She hadn’t smelled anything dire on the Hobbs family; licking it off Will’s mouth would do no harm.

But Will doesn’t answer, and she pushes Hanna’s hands away, nearly knocking her over in her rush to get away from the scene.

Hanna touches her own mouth, anyway, rising, not realizing until she arrives home the next day that she never knocked the dust and dirt from her pants.

 

* * *

 

She rubber-stamps Will's approval to work for Jack's peace of mind, and then Will avoids Hanna entirely. Even their single mandatory session had been full of halted speech, nothing but curt greetings and sarcastic answers. Will barely even looks at Hanna at crime scenes, enough neglect to make her seriously consider in which manner she actually wants to eat Will.

It shouldn't arouse her as much as it infuriates her, and yet.

Hanna supposes that's primarily what made Will's intent stare at her in the ambulance so intriguing, made it such an enticement. She caught Will watching her hands and scanning up Hanna's bared forearms, covered in blood, and Will looked _hungry._

Curious.

If Will is going to seem starved, it's only fair to invite her for dinner. Hanna isn't shocked when Will adjusts her glasses and turns her down—

"I don't think that's a good idea, Dr. Lecter, not when I'm you're patient."

"I only ever wanted to have conversations with you. Nothing so official as an appointment, and certainly nothing on-record."

"You're a psychiatrist, so you'll forgive me for not believing you."

—but the change to Will's scent _does_ surprise Hanna, the smell of burning asbestos and ruined caramel hiding under the typical over-application of spray antiperspirant. Encephalitis, if Hanna remembers her years practicing emergency medicine correctly, which, considering the life she just saved, Hanna's certain she does.

Will may not come to dinner tomorrow, but Hanna thinks Will showing up at her door is inevitable. What Hanna may ultimately do about it? She's unnerved to admit she has no idea.

But Hanna will have her, gray matter on fire or not.

 

* * *

 

The dead cellist makes Will more open to suggestion than usual, the encephalitis exposing every vulnerability in Will's armor, causing Will to play her hand without meaning to do so. Hanna learns about the Ghost of Hobbs Past, and a great stag covered in black feathers, and sleepwalking and sweating and raccoons in the chimney.

Running her hand through Will's unruly hair is manipulative, Hanna knows; placing her palm on the back of Will's neck, a power play. But Will sags into Hanna's touch, grateful for the embrace—

"Thank you," and Will presses her feverish forehead against Hanna's neck. “I’m—I know it’s rude to show up uninvited, especially when you have company.”

Hanna pauses, fingers still tangled in Will’s hair. She’d nearly forgotten Tobias sitting at her dining table. “Friends are always welcome in my kitchen, no matter whether or not I’m entertaining.”

“Are we?”

“What?” Hanna composes herself, petting through the tangles of Will’s chocolate curls.

“Friends. I’ve never—” Will swallows; Hanna feels her throat undulate under her palm. “I thought I’d done a fair job of pushing you away.”

“I admit a certain degree of disappointment at your frequent rebuffs and diminishing of my integrity, not to mention my career.”

Will takes a shaky breath, winding her arms around Hanna’s waist, pressing closer, wrinkling her bespoke suit. “Defense mechanism.”

“What have you to defend yourself from, especially with me?”

“Everything,” says Will with a soft laugh. “Absolutely everything.” She hums in contentment as Hanna rubs between her shoulder blades. “I bashed another hole in my wall trying to find animals that didn’t exist. Alana kissed me. You smell nice. Like grapefruit—what is it?”

“Citrus Paradisi.” Hanna decides not to inquire about Alana, let alone the structural integrity of Will’s house. “Have you eaten?”

“Does low blood sugar cause hallucinations, Dr. Lecter?”

“It can, yes.” Hanna takes a deep breath, and her nostrils fill with the pleasant stench of Will’s fever and the impurity of cheap soap. “I worry for your health,” and Hanna does, mostly. Up until now, her curiosity has won out, but it’s difficult to remain the impartial experimenter when she holds the experiment’s subject in her arms, soft and trusting. “Shall I ask my guest to leave?”

“He already left. Didn’t you hear the door?”

And Hanna hadn’t. She’d never heard a thing. How little Hanna knows herself when Will enters the equation.

“You lovely, perceptive girl,” Hanna murmurs.

 _How dangerous,_ her brain reminds her. _Get her out._

“Tell me, Will: do you like chocolate?”

 

* * *

 

Sending Will after Tobias had been impulsive. It was so easy to wind Will up, to set her out like a single-minded bloodhound. Hanna knew she would meet the challenge, because of course she would. It was Will—alluring, unpredictable Will—and she always performed beyond expectations.

The dead men in Hanna’s office floor say otherwise.

Her body aches, but it’s nothing compared to the sickness of her heart, the churning of her stomach. She sinks into the chair behind her desk and sweeps her injured arm across it, sending sketches of sectioned brains skittering toward Budge’s body. Hanna closes her eyes, conjures up the _Goldberg Variations,_ only to have the variations take on the music of her little sister’s death throes.

Love, then. She’d loved Will and never knew it, had assumed she was merely obsessed, that possession would cure what ailed. Will surprises her at every turn. Or else, surprised.

Which of them had Hanna been running the experiment on?

Hanna has had cause to regret extremely few things over the course of her life. What an utter waste of a brilliant mind. She should’ve kissed Will in her kitchen, mouth smudged with chocolate, her eyes wide in appreciative wonder, like she’d never had dessert until Hanna put the fork to her lips.

Why didn’t Hanna take her to see a specialist, to have her made well? What is freedom without a stubborn, flanneled, infuriating force of nature to counter every move Hanna makes? She might as well go make Chilton’s day and turn herself in.

The unit shows up, and Hanna tries to pull her human suit back into place. A looser fit than usual, but nothing out of the ordinary for a woman who’s suffered a traumatic event. The paramedic patching Hanna up goes largely ignored, and Hanna hears someone discuss shock, and yes, Hanna _is_ shocked, though mostly by her own responses.

When Will walks into the room, Hanna’s insides fall to pieces. If Will’s eyes can be trusted, hers have, too.

“Mr. Budge said he was questioned by the FBI and he murdered two men.” Hanna blinks back her relief—Jack blurs in her periphery. “I was worried you were dead.”

She acts strangely shy, showing Hannibal her own arm. “You had reason to worry.”

Jack’s questions are blunt, and Will snaps into order with him, a procedural suit of her own. Hanna knows Jack is suspicious, but Will...the way Will looks at her, like she already knows the truth of it. Like she knows Hanna.

_How dangerous. Get her out._

Hanna thinks it’s too late for that.

Will’s hand trembles as she takes the gauze and begins to dab at Hanna’s forehead. “I feel like I’ve dragged you into my world.” She briefly flicks her eyes away from her work, as tender as it is conspiratorial.

“I got here on my own,” Hanna says, “but I appreciate the company.”

“Hanna.” It’s the first time Will’s said her name.

“Yes?”

“Why did you send me to Budge’s shop?”

Hanna spares a quick glance to Jack and his team, still wrapped up in the crime scene. “I’m not sure what you mean.”

“Don’t _lie_ to me.” How lovely Will is when she snarls! “Why, Hanna? What were you expecting?”

“A triumphant return. An epiphany, perhaps.” She pauses, then admits, “For you to feel powerful.”

“For me to kill him, you mean. Like I killed Hobbs.”

Hanna says nothing. What is there to say?

Will sighs, then runs her hand down the ruffled front of Hanna’s silk blouse, once white, now polka-dotted with scarlet. “I have to give statements. Paperwork.” She smiles crookedly. “With two crime scenes? A _lot_ of paperwork.”

“My sincerest apologies.” Hanna dares cover Will’s hand with her own. “Am I in trouble, Special Agent Graham?”

“What do you think?”

“To be honest, I haven’t a clue.”

“What would you think if I dropped by later? Once I’m done.”

Hanna considers it. “We’ve both had a stressful day. Perhaps you could join me for dinner tomorrow night?”

Will hums, then pulls her hand away. “Six?”

“Seven.”

“Seven.” She pushes herself off the desk. “Seven, then,” and Will walks away. Hanna watches Will return to her perpetual slump, marvels at the change of her gait, how her hips stop swaying halfway across the room, and decides she’s in trouble, indeed.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> there really was supposed to be smut in this chapter, but these assholes wouldn't stop talking.

The last time Hanna had taken this long to pick out an outfit, she’d interviewed for a spot at Johns Hopkins. Even then, she’d been able to narrow it down quickly: a suit, the most masculine suit she could find, something that screamed, “I am your equal.”

That hadn’t been the truth with those gatekeepers of medicine; Hanna knew she was infinitely better than they. With Will, Hanna wasn’t so sure. If any person could be a true equal, it would be Will.

Hanna stood in front of a full-length mirror, completely nude, because she couldn’t even decide on underwear. Would the two of them only have dinner—and what should Hanna make for that? Would it be better to serve a local game, or game she has hunted herself? Best to phone the butcher.

Getting dressed to go out for groceries, by comparison, was much, much easier.

But now, back in front of her reflection, Hanna’s returned to her conundrum over lace or silk. The sheer lace would show off the bare, smooth expanse of her mons, providing a tantalizing glimpse of her vulva, likewise hairless. Silk, on the other hand, would provide full coverage, never mind the oft-intrusive thoughts of what Will’s mouth might feel like overtop.

She makes up her mind quickly; getting wet from panty-provoked daydreaming will inevitably get in the way of dinner.

Skirt? Pants? Does it matter? Probably not.

_ Stop being ridiculous. _

Hanna allows three minutes to rifle through her closet. If it’s already on the bed, chances are she isn’t invested in wearing it. Two minutes in, and her eye lands on a piece she’s never found an opportunity to wear. The shirtdress is a black poly-silk blend, printed with swans and the night sky, trimmed and sashed in a cream the same shade as the swans. She considers the pattern—perhaps it’s too... _ busy _ for a first date.

And then, Hanna remembers the painting of Leda hanging in the dining room. Swans it is.

 

* * *

 

Apart from offal, venison is easily Hanna’s favorite meat to cook with. She finds it versatile, a red meat not as sullied as American beef, rich but lean, a perfect vehicle for fatty, buttery sauces. The vast majority of the butter she’ll be using will serve as a cream base for the caramelized onions, but there’s still plenty to baste the venison with when the time comes. For now, Hanna works on the acorns that will serve as a base for the porcini soup.

The oysters still need shucking, but Hanna would rather wait and demonstrate that in front of Will. Along with the acorns, should the night turn sour, her guest should still be decently flavored.

Acorns, chopped; onions, likewise; porcini mushrooms, soaking; mirepoix, awaiting; venison, approaching room temperature; batter for the chocolate fondants, prepared. The bourbon for the soup is selected, and Hanna’s beginning to give thought to the wine when the doorbell rings.

She checks the clock. Will isn’t due for over an hour. Hanna frowns—this isn’t an auspicious beginning to the night, but she slips the silver hoop earrings on as she walks from the kitchen, and trades her comfortable cooking slippers out for beige heels, and then, there is Will, standing before her.

Will fiddles with the sleeve of her sport coat. “Sorry I’m so early,” she says. “Jack caught me after my lecture and...well. You know how it goes.” Shrugging with her head, she adds, “Figured driving all the way home would make me late, so here I am.”

All Hanna can think to say is, “You clean up nicely,” because Will does and has. Her hair, usually unruly and damply curled, almost approaches kempt, one single curl out of place, lying against her forehead. The blue-and-mauve plaid fabric of her shirt is crisp; given the new note to Will’s scent, it’s also brand new, fresh from a department store plastic package. Surprisingly, the rest of her outfit compliments the shirt: her jacket reminds Hanna of raw umber, and Will’s pants are a dark khaki, as well as ironed. While Hanna wishes they’d managed to match unawares, she can’t deny how pleasing Will looks.

“Oh. Uh. Thanks, I guess.” Will gestures to the bag in her left hand. “I brought wine? Didn’t have a clue what I was doing, but I hope it’s okay.”

“I’m sure it’s perfect. May I take your jacket?”

Will keeps making eye contact with the staircase. “Not right now. I’d feel even less underdressed than I do now—I like your dress, by the way.” She pauses, licking her dry lips compulsively, glancing at Hanna’s outfit again. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen you in a dress before.”

“I prefer pants when working.” Hanna hears Will fall into step behind her, following to the kitchen. “It lends an unfortunate air of professionalism.”

“Unfortunate?”

“Patriarchal assumptions of appropriate clothing for a person in a position of power.”

Will clumsily sets her bag on the counter. “What about female politicians? They wear...skirt suits?” She laughs breathily. “I don’t actually know what they’re called.”

“Yet you do well, nonetheless.” Hanna’s delighted to see Will’s eyes follow the movement of her fingers as she ties her apron in the front. “But I’m certain you’re aware of how seriously women lawmakers are taken in this country.”

“Point taken.” Will clears her throat. “So what’s for dinner?”

“For l’entree, a porcini acorn cream soup, followed by le plat principal, a butter-seared venison with caramelized onions on a bed of sauteed cavolo nero. Dessert is a  fondant au chocolat  with licorice cream. Coffee and brandy to follow, should you feel so inclined.” Hanna looks over her shoulder from the stove, and Will has hunger written all over her face again. “If you’d like, we could start off with an apéritif? I have champagne and fresh mussels at the ready.”

“Presumptuous of you, Dr. Lecter.” Will finally tears her eyes away; Hanna chooses not to comment on how they’d been rudely glued to the plunging v-neck of her dress. “Should I shuck them or—”

“I wasn’t aware you knew how to prepare oysters.”

“I’m a good fisher. Comes with the title.”

“Not always.”

“Hence why I’m good.”

_ What else are you good at? _ Hanna gives the soup a final stir. “They’re in the fridge on the bottom shelf. Wedged lemon in the crisper drawer. You’ll find an oyster knife and gloves in the drawer behind me.”

Will doesn’t take her jacket off now, either, simply pushes the sleeves up to her elbows and sets to shucking. They work well in the kitchen together, and Hanna wonders if Will’s empathy has anything to do with it, if that’s what keeps them in rhythm, synchronized, almost waltzing. Hanna eventually takes a break from basting the venison to open the champagne, only to discover Will has already opened it. And found the flutes. And is pouring them each a glass.

To Hanna’s knowledge, Will has only been in her kitchen once.

“I didn’t overstep, did I?” Will asks. “You said there would be champagne with the appetiz—the apéritif, and I’m working on that. Figured I should do this, too.”

“Of course. Very thoughtful of you.”

Will smiles and hands Hanna a too-full flute. She leans back against the counter, sleeves still up, and sips at her own drink. “Smells amazing in here.”

“Speaking of,” and Hanna is glad for the distraction, “may I see the wine you brought for us?”

“Knock yourself out.”

Hanna finds herself hesitant to move; every nerve in her body is screaming warning, because Will looks sinister, both a smirk and a blush playing across her features, a twinkle to her eyes that hints as much of intrigue as it does of calculation. Far be it from Hanna to show weakness, however, so she takes the step and leaves Will at her back.

“Castello di Brolio.” The brown paper bag crinkles as Hanna lifts the bottle out. “This should match the meal quite well.”

“You sound pleasantly surprised.” Will sounds unpleasantly amused. “I’m not all backwater boats and houses in the sticks, you know. Besides, you seem to like red.”

“Wine?”

“Sure.” Will flips between hesitant and unnervingly confident like whiplash. “And lipstick.” A return to slightly sly shyness. “You look good in red.”

Hanna tries not to preen beyond what’s necessary. “I think you would, as well,” and she allows a moment to picture the stain of her Rouge Fétiche around a purple bruise and the imprint of her teeth behind Will’s jaw.

“My own? Or yours?”

“I believe the answer to that is, ‘Yes.’”

Will’s blush dips deliciously down the collar of her shirt. “So you, um.” She takes a considerable gulp of her champagne; Hanna watches her swallow, the undulation of her throat. “You said this will work with the venison?”

Hanna opens the lid on the pan of onions, starting to grow translucent, glistening in the oil and butter. “Nicely. Help yourself to an oyster, if you’d like.”

“Is that an invitation or a demand?” Shells clink against each other on the serving platter. “Or is the answer to  _ that _ also yes?”

“Take it as you like.” Hanna’s happy to note Will doesn’t take the lemon for her oyster, even happier when Will’s eyes slide closed with enjoyment, knowing what she’s eating is raw. The delight is as viceral as it is vicious. “They’re better fresh, aren’t they?”

Will only hums and reaches for another. Hanna wonders if Will had lunch—she seems the type for self-neglect. Even if Will had, Hanna would never deny her, and isn’t that a discomfiting realization?

“I’d introduce you to my fishmonger,” continues Hanna, “but I feel like you’d take offense.”

“Waders, I have.” Will trades out one shell for another. “An oyster license? Not so much.”

“Do you look charming in waders, Will?”

Before she tips the oyster into her mouth, Will tells her, “I guess you’ll just have to tag along sometime and find out.”

 

* * *

 

Dinner was a quiet affair, which Hanna expected, considering how their Minnesota breakfast chat had gone. Now, however, Will wasn’t trying to irritate Hanna, which made the second meal slightly more of a delight than the first. The relative silence was a nice change from the usual guided conversations held at Hanna’s dining room table.

When they  _ did _ speak, Will was pleasant and engaging, albeit a bit cryptic.

“Do you cook venison often?” she’d asked.

“I prefer to work with the unusual cuts,” Hanna replied. She places the fork and knife in a v on her plate, but doesn’t set them down. “Game, for instance. Before meat was more readily available in urban areas, game was considered a mark of social mobility.”

“Are you socially mobile?”

“I like to think so, though I was born into nobility.”

Will shook her head. “Of course you were.” She took another bite of the venison, made another noise of contentment. Hanna couldn’t help but wonder how Will appeared and sounded elsewhere, satisfying other hungers, or perhaps in pain. Will would look beatific in both, she decided. “I guess you’re not one for streaked meat, then.”

Hanna admitted, “I’m unfamiliar with the term.”

“Picked it up when Dad took a rare non-boat job in Appalachia. Fatty bacon—salt pork, basically.”

“A dialect and food I shall have to study, then.”

“So you’re a lingual elitist.”

Hanna smiled, cutting into her venison. “Hardly. A student of the world and all its tongues.”

Will’s eyes palpably bore into the side of Hanna’s head. “Including the edible ones?”

“All tongues are edible if one tries hard enough.”

“Hmm.” Will sliced a long string of onion. “Interesting qualification.”

“How so?”

Will deflected with another question: “What about organs? Beyond liver, I mean. What constitutes an ‘unusual’ organ?”

Hanna chewed her bite thoughtfully, trying to decide how to respond. Will skirted a troubling realization. “Sausage casings are traditionally intestinal and can be filled with any various ground cuts from an animal. Haggis, for example, is comprised of sheep’s pluck. I suppose heart or kidney would be more oft served on its own, as we’re discounting liver. Perhaps brain, depending on where one calls home.”

“And what about lungs?”

Alarm bells rang in Hanna’s ears. “A very difficult meat to procure, given their illegality in the United States.”

“No wonder the Copycat Killer was desperate for them.”

“I wouldn’t necessarily deem it desperation.”

“What would you deem it?”

_ Careful, Will. _ “Without a psychological profile,” said Hanna, “it’s hard to say.”

And then the meal dipped into silence once more.

They don’t speak again until Will insists on helping clear the dishes, no matter how politely Hanna protests. “You did have me help with the meal,” she says. “Besides, I’m curious about dessert. Don’t want to wait longer than we have to.”

“Impatient girl, aren’t you?”

“I have my moments.” Will begins to rinse the plates, no direction from Hanna taken. It doesn’t sit well with Hanna; she’s unused to not being needed, or at least asked for guidance. She tries to let the disgruntlement go, turning her attention to filling the ramekins for the petits gâteau.

A china plate clatters in the sink, sounding inevitably chipped. Hanna begins to turn around, only to feel pressure between her shoulder blades; the click of the gun’s hammer is unmistakable. She scans her workspace, but there’s no knife to be found, and Hanna doesn’t have time to pick up the sheet pan holding the ramekins and swing before the gun would go off.

“Did you not enjoy dinner?” she asks.

“It was wonderful,” says Will. “Now show me the basement.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> if they don't fuck in chapter three, i'm gonna sue.
> 
> thank you so much for all of the lovely, lovely comments! i'm overwhelmed with your enjoyment. <3
> 
> (also! you can find all of the art i've used for inspiration in [this thread on twitter](https://twitter.com/shiphitsthefan/status/1124365677907927041). i'm doing my best to incorporate as many elements from the, uh, "visual source material" as possible. please go show some awe to the artists!)

**Author's Note:**

> you can find me on [twitter](https://twitter.com/shiphitsthefan). learn more about me [here](https://shiphitsthefan.carrd.co/).
> 
> thanks for reading! kudos and comments are held close to my heart. <3


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